


Evil Author Day 2020

by HakeberHooligan



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22729480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HakeberHooligan/pseuds/HakeberHooligan
Summary: My contributions to Evil Author Day! Five first chapters to five different wips. Warnings and summaries will be added in author's notes before each chapter.Fic one: Obi-Wan/Anakin/Padmé- After an attempt on Padmé's life on Coruscant, Anakin is tasked with seeing her safely to Naboo. Something doesn't sit right with Obi-Wan, so he joins them on their journey.Fic two: Stiles/Peter- Peter has never felt right after his resurrection. The worst is being physically touched repulses him. After a brush with Stiles, Peter realizes that he's the only one who's touch he can stomach, and he craves more. Whether Stiles likes it or not isn't his problem.Fic three: Stiles/Peter- Stiles gets a rude awakening when he learns that his girlfriend is engaged to a rather handsome man.Fic four: Stiles/Chris- Stiles is a cop, and Chris is his drunk friend who's caught trying to drive home from the bar. When Stiles finds out it's because Chris' husband Peter is cheating on him, Stiles is furious.Fic five: Stiles/Derek- after trapping a supernatural being in an alley, Peter and Derek are stunned when Stiles nonchalantly tells them to get lost. Who is this kid, and where are his fucks?
Relationships: Chris Argent/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Padmé Amidala/Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 30
Kudos: 178





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! As someone who only posts completed works, I was over the moon to learn about Evil Author Day. Finally, a chance to show you all what I've been working on! These are my five favorite wips that i have sitting around. I would love to hear your feedback! What you liked, where you think the story is going, and anything else you might have to say. I have five fics total, and I'll be posting them as chapters throughout the day. That being said, enjoy!
> 
> \- - - 
> 
> Fic one: Obi-Wan/Anakin/Padmé
> 
> Warnings: none
> 
> Additional notes: A/B/O dynamics, Canon Divergent, and I also played with the story line a bit to fit the fic. Instead of public transport, they're taking an unmanned supply ship to Naboo.

Obi-Wan watches Anakin and Padmé walk towards the ship, a sick feeling twisting in his gut. The craft is registered as a supply transport, and although they’ll be the only humans aboard, he has full confidence that they’ll make it to Naboo without interruption. And yet… Something doesn’t feel right. He can’t shake the feeling and it sets him on edge. His connection to the Force vibrates within him and urges him forward, to walk alongside them rather than watch them go. It soon becomes unbearable and he turns to Windu.

“Master, I’ve always trusted the Force. Right now, it’s telling me that I must be with them. I worry something terrible will happen if they’re to go alone.”

Windu gives him a sidelong, searching glance before nodding.

“If that’s what you feel, Obi-Wan. I’ve never known you to make a rash decision.”

“Thank you, Master,” Obi-Wan says quickly before taking off towards the ship's loading dock. “Anakin!” He shouts, halting his young charge.

Anakin turns around and gives him a curious look.

“Forget to kiss me goodbye?” He jokes, but there’s a hard edge to his tone that Obi-Wan dislikes. He knows that Anakin’s been itching for some time alone with the Senator, away from watchful eyes and judging scolds.

“I’m coming with you,” Obi-Wan says. At the flare of anger that shows behind Anakin’s eyes, Obi-Wan adds, “Windu’s orders.”

The lie makes his stomach sour, but he keeps the same warm, friendly smile on his face. Padmé smiles at the news.

“You’ll be a welcome addition, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

His smile feels more genuine at her words, but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it.

“Well let’s get going then, we haven’t got all day,” Anakin spits, his sunny mood turned overcast. He turns and stalks up the loading dock, not waiting for Padmé or Obi-wan to follow. When Padmé gives him a questioning look, Obi-wan’s smile turns strained.

“He’s under a lot of stress right now,” he explains, feeling the need to defend his friend. “He cares very deeply for you, and he’s worried.”

Padmé gives a shy smile in reply.

“I care for him too. For both of you,” she puts a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, letting it linger before stepping onto the platform and walking into the ship. Obi-Wan waits until she’s out of sight before entering the ship himself. It’s going to be a long four days to Naboo, he can already tell.

\- - -

The rest of the day goes without incident. If anything, Anakin is slightly more broody than normal, but Obi-Wan is used to dealing with bouts of emotion from the young Jedi. Anakin has always struggled with his emotions ruling both his mind and his heart, and Obi-Wan usually finds himself wishing that they had found young Anakin earlier, trained him sooner, and saved the boy from a childhood of slavery.

But the past is unchangeable, and Anakin must find it within himself to cope with his misfortune and open himself to the sway of the Force. Sometimes, he wonders if it will ever come to fruition.

Obi-wan sits on the floor of his and Anakin’s shared temporary bedroom, sitting back on his heels and taking even breaths, opening himself to the Force. Since he made the decision to join them on the transport, the vibrations of the Force have been still, at peace.

“Master, dinner is ready,” Anakin says softly from behind him, at the door to their room.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes and turns to give him a warm smile.

“Thank you, Anikin. I’ll be right along.”

A frown crosses Anakin’s face, and for a moment he looks troubled. Obi-Wan holds his breath, waiting for a question of wisdom. Obi-wan has told him time and time again that he can tell him anything, ask for guidance on anything, but Anakin continues to be more closed off than Obi-Wan would like. But, one can only push so hard before the opposing force pushes back. He doesn’t want to alienate the boy.

Anakin’s face relaxes, and the moment passes.

“We will wait for you, Master,” is the reply, and he turns to walk away.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan calls, standing and walking towards him. “I’m ready now. Let me walk with you.”

Anakin nods and waits for him to fall into step before continuing to the common area. The ship isn’t small by any means, but the living quarters are comparably small to the storage hull. Still, the bedrooms are a relative distance from the common area, and it takes about a minute to reach it.

They walk silently, Obi-Wan patiently waiting for Anakin to break the silence. As expected, it doesn’t take long.

“I’ve been feeling strange, Obi-Wan,” he says with a burst. “Something’s been different since we landed on Coruscant, and I can’t place it.”

Anakin looks frustrated. Obi-Wan places a hand on his shoulder and feels his tense muscles release slightly under the friendly touch. Anakin’s always been fairly tactile, another thing that Obi-Wan credits to starting his training so late in his young life.

“Perhaps you should take some time to meditate tonight, look within yourself. I haven’t seen you do this in a week at least.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Anakin says distractedly. Even though Obi-Wan knows he’s just saying that to appease his master, he lets it go. He remembers being twenty, and it was a trying for him as well.

They reach the dining hall, and Obi-Wan’s eyes immediately alight upon Padmé. Her face is flushed and she looks restless, constantly shifting in her seat. A slightly sweet, unfamiliar scent hangs thick in the air around her.

“Senator, you look unwell,” Obi-Wan says, placing a hand on her forehead. She’s not feverish, but more warm than he’d like her to be.

She smiles at the familiar touch, but it’s a strained thing.

“Stress is my guess,” she says, carelessly waving a hand. “My stomach feels fine, if not slightly starved. Was lunch only four hours ago?”

They all chuckle at the light humor, and the two men take their seats at the table. Anakin is quick to take the seat next to Padmé, but Obi-Wan allows it. Especially with the Senator’s life at risk, he isn’t going to admonish Anakin for being overly protective.

“Eat up, and be sure to drink a lot of water,” Anakin says, sliding her filled wine goblet away from her and filling her second glass with cool water from the pitcher.

“Ani, I’m not a child,” Padmé scolds, but it’s with a slight grin and a blush deepens her already pinkish cheeks.

Obi-Wan watches the exchange carefully. He knows that Anakin has more than platonic feelings for her, and the same can be said for Padmé. But both of them already know that nothing can come of it, she being a senator and he a Jedi.

Still, Obi-Wan can’t deny the pull he feels to her either, something  _ other  _ that sets him on edge and urges him to protect her at all costs. It doesn’t feel wrong though, so he ignores it for the time being. He will understand in time.

Dinner is spent with casual conversation and delicious courses, finishing with chocolate cake, a favorite of Obi-Wan’s. He’s drank a fair amount of wine and he’s feeling remarkably at ease given their situation.

Anakin’s had several goblets himself, and he’s more relaxed than Obi-Wan has seen in months. Throughout dinner, he’s scooted closer to Padmé, and they’re so close that their shoulders touch. While Padmé doesn’t look bothered by the contact, her condition has been declining all night. She’s leaning heavily against Anakin, despite the lack of alcohol on her part. The sweet scent surrounding her has thickened, and it niggles something in the back of Obi-Wan’s mind.

“I think it’s time we got Padmé to bed, yes?” He asks Anakin after a lull in conversation. Anakin looks uncomfortable with the mention of separation, but Obi-Wan gives him a meaningful look and he agrees.

“You’re right, Master,” he says, pressing his hand over her forehead much like Obi-wan did not two hours ago.

“You two,” Padmé says, slapping Anakin’s hand away, “are worse than my childhood nanny. I’m  _ fine,  _ really. I’m sure a good night’s rest will have me back to normal.”

The three of them get up and make their way to the sleeping quarters. Padmé’s condition has Obi-Wan concerned, and Anakin is obviously right there with him. When they reach the doors to their quarters, Anakin hesitates, clearly not ready to send Padmé off. She lingers as well, and it’s up to Obi-Wan to break them up.

“Rest well, Senator. If you aren’t better by tomorrow we’ll decide on a course of action.”

Padmé swallows hard and nods, a shiver running the length of her small frame. She walks into her room and closes the door. Anakin steps forward, but Obi-Wan places a hand on his chest to stop him.

“I don’t like this,” Anakin growls, a glimmer of something animalistic in his eyes. Again, something pulls at the edges of Obi-Wan’s consciousness, like he’s missing an answer that’s  _ just  _ outside his reach. To be honest, he doesn’t like leaving her alone either, but they’re all adults. She can be trusted to come to them if she needs help.

“We’re right across the hall, Anakin. If she needs us, we’re right here.”

Anakin looks like he’s about to argue, but instead turns to stalk into their room and straight to the bathroom. Obi-Wan hears the shower start a moment later.  _ Good.  _ Anakin could use a shower to settle his frayed nerves.

While he waits for the bathroom to free up, Obi-Wan takes the time to finish his meditation session that had been interrupted before dinner. He kneels, resting back on his heels, and opens himself to the vibrations of the Force. Outside of the normal distress of the ongoing war, he doesn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. Surely, if Padmé was in any  _ real _ danger, he would feel it. But all he feels right now is a sense of  _ rightness,  _ a feeling that things are turning in their favor.

When Anakin is done with his shower, Obi-Wan takes his own. When he steps out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed and clear, he finds Anakin pacing back and forth, agitated.

“Ani, you have to calm yourself,” Obi-Wan urges. “Reach out to the Force, I myself felt that nothing is amiss. Padmé will be  _ okay.” _

At his words, Anakin stills, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. It takes longer than Obi-Wan would like, but he sees when Anakin connects with his tether to the Force and visibly relaxes, the tension leaving his body. With a sigh, he opens his eyes.

“You’re right, Master,” he says. “But I can't shake this feeling… like I  _ need  _ to be next to her. Protect her, provide for her, be there for her. It’s unlike any urge I’ve ever felt.”

Obi-Wan takes pity on his young Padawan and walks up to him, clasping his shoulder.

“I feel it too, Ani. But we must be above our urges and desires. It is the way.”

Anakin takes Obi-Wan by surprise when he pushes him away angrily.

“What if I do not like that way?!” He rages. “What are we, if not our wants and desires? Do the Jedi masters wish us to be the very droids we fight against, the very droids we treat as household goods? Are we not men, with emotion and aspirations, with  _ love?  _ I hate it, Obi-Wan. I am not a slave to my emotions, but I refuse to act as if I do not have them.”

This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. It’s a long, tiring discussion that always ends in exhaustion and no resolve. Tonight, he doesn’t have it in him to fight. So instead, he speaks a language that Anakin knows best.

He marches up to Anakin and wraps him in embrace, holding him and willing him to settle. Anakin has always responded best to physical affection, more than any Padawan or Jedi that Obi-Wan has known. When Anakin was a child, it took some time getting used to the boy crawling into his bed in the middle of the night, crying over having to leave his mother behind.

As he grew, Obi-Wan became more comfortable with the contact. The night time visits happened less frequently, but he would still find himself sharing his bed when Anakin was having a particularly bad day. When Anakin turned seventeen the touches became less innocent, and Obi-Wan had made a point of reminding Anakin that Jedis don’t give into base desires. How even though Jedis are naturally Alphas, the high midi-chlorian count within their cells blocked their second-gender maturity.

They had never spoken of that night since, and Obi-Wan acted as if it never happened, continuing as they always have. He felt like Anakin held onto that rejection though, and has always hoped that he would one day let it go.

Anakin stiffens at first, then leans into the contact in a way that he hasn’t in years. Obi-Wan only truly understands how anxious he is at the submission, and his heart clenches in sympathy for his friend, who’s in obvious distress.

“We will all be okay, you hear me Anakin?” He says, the puffs of his breath making Anakin’s short curls sway and tickle his nose.

“Thank you, Master,” he mumbles, breathing in deep and sighing. After a long moment, Obi-Wan lets him go and stands a little straighter.

“What we need is rest. I don’t suspect trouble, but we are to be in peak condition if any situation arises.”

Anakin nods and walks over to his bed without another word. Obi-Wan can still tell that he’s restless, but appreciates that he’s trying.

He walks over to his own bed and lays down. Sleep eventually comes to him, but it’s fitful and shallow at best, all of his senses focused on the room across the hallway.

\- - -

Obi-Wan is awoken suddenly, a heavy vibration of the Force thrumming through him. He sits up in bed and looks over at Anakin, who’s been startled awake same as him.

“Padmé,” Anakin says, casting his blankets aside and leaping out of bed.

“Anakin, wait!” Obi-Wan shouts, but he’s already out the door and he can hear her door panel shifting open.

He gets up and runs across the hallway, gasping at the scent that reaches his nose. The sweet smell is so thick it’s cloying, and alluring in a way than nothing has ever smelt before. He sees Padmé on her bed, in nothing but her sleep clothes, writhing on the sheets and mewling weakly. Anakin is at her side, gripping her hand tightly with a worried look. He looks at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan can see that his self-control is crumbling, even as he fights to keep it in check.

“I’m sorry,” Padmé whines from where she restlessly moves against the sheets, one hand gripping Anakin and the other balling the sheets into her fist.

Obi-Wan fights to keep his head clear, but he fears it’s a losing battle. It’s never smelt like this before, never captivated him as such.

“She’s-” Obi-Wan swallows thickly- “Padmé,  _ you’re in heat.” _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Two: Stiles/Peter
> 
> Warnings: rape/non-con, underage, graphic depictions of violence
> 
> Additional notes: Peter is a very bad person in this, please heed the warnings. Current and post-Nogitsune Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly suggest listening to the song _I Would Hurt a Fly_ by Built to Spill before reading this. It's what gave me the inspiration for this fic, and It's an amazing, dark song. Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6hvBQnrOPII

_I can't get that sound you make out of my head_ _  
_ _I can't even figure out what's making it_ _  
_ _No one else around even seems to be noticing_ _  
_ _It's only small enough for me_

_I can't get that sound you make out of my head_ _  
_ _I can't even figure out what's making it_ _  
_ _It feels like fingernails across the moon_ _  
_ _Or do you rub your wings together_

_There's a mean bone in my body_ _  
_ _It's connected to the problems that I won't take for an answer_ _  
_ _And I won't take that from you_ _  
_ _Because I'd hurt a fly_

_Let you go to sleep_ _  
_ _Feeling bad as me_   
_Let you go to sleep_ _  
_ Feeling bad

_-I Would Hurt a Fly,_ Built to Spill

Chapter One

When Peter is resurrected, something isn’t quite right. It’s as if his skin doesn’t fit him properly anymore. His senses are off and reality just feels _skewed._ It’s like he’s walking through a dream. There are days of complete and total clarity, but then there are also days where time seems to run together and his life is a series of blurred moments. 

He knew that reversing death wouldn’t be without consequences, but it’s still preferable to being buried under the floorboards of his former home. So, he silently accepts it and deals with it in his own way.

\- - -

When his claws slice through Deucalion's throat and he absorbs the Alpha spark, it helps. But it’s not enough. He thought that he would be fully restored to the wolf he once was.

He was wrong.

He’s certainly more powerful, his senses start to work properly again, and the feeling of _wrongness_ abates some, but it still seems as if he’s teetering between this reality and another, far-off one.

It’s infuriating.

None of the pack remotely believe him when he spins a tale that Deucalion had sought him out, leaving Peter no choice but to kill him in self-defense. They don’t question it though, just give him the wide berth that he’s earned for his past transgressions. 

Good.

Because touch? That’s another thing that he can no longer stomach. 

\- - -

The first time he fucks Stiles, it isn’t really Stiles at all, but the Nogitsune. He hadn’t known until after the fact, not that it mattered either way.

He had just found out that Talia had stolen away memories of him siring a child. Then those narcissistic teenage _pains in his ass_ had withheld the information of just _who_ the child was. When he pushed, the Argent girl had tasered him, leaving him convulsing on the floor as they fled.

Ten minutes later finds him pacing the loft in a rage, lashing out at random items. He punches a hole through a brick wall at one point. Then he hears the door slide open and turns, ready to rip whoever it is a new one. 

That whoever is Stiles.

“What the fuck do you want, Stiles?” He snarls. 

Stiles looks worse for wear, bags under his eyes and his skin is somehow more pale? He still has that insufferable smug look on his face, though. _Everything_ about the boy is insufferable. He’s like a housefly that you can’t seem to get under your palm. It used to set him on edge. After dying and coming back, it drives him absolutely insane.

“Just looking for a lesson on behaving.” He says casually, hands in his pockets. He waltzes over to Peter and stands in front of him, stance firm.

“Fuck off,” Peter growls, shoving Stiles roughly. He doesn’t know what game he’s playing, but Peter wants none of it. If Stiles isn’t careful, he’ll be leaving the loft looking even worse than when he came in.

Stiles stumbles backwards and has to grab Peter’s wrist to stop from toppling over. Peter’s about to shake him off before he pauses. This touch isn’t recoil-worthy, as all the rest have been. It actually feels… normal. His mind also sharpens, and that air of fogginess that clings to him dissipates entirely. He stares at Stiles hand where it still grips his wrist.

He feels like he’s had a revelation.

Peter could easily break every bone in Stiles’ hand, but instead he decides to see what he’s up to. It’s not as if he has anything to fear from the boy. In fact, he thinks their room to gain something.

It’s a surprise when Stiles brings Peter’s hand to his lips and slips Peter’s thumb into his mouth, sucking hard and adding a slight sting of teeth. Peter’s breath hitches and he feels a flare of indignance. _What the fuck does he think he’s doing?_ He pulls his hand away and backhands Stiles hard.

Stiles’ head snaps to the side, but his body stands unnervingly firm. He slowly turns his head to face Peter, grinning even as a large red mark blooms high on his cheek. 

“Show me how to behave, Peter.” His tone is husky, suggestive even. By now, Peter would be lying if he said he was filled with so much tension and frustration that he felt like he was going to explode. “Or can you not get it up, old wolf? Maybe I was wrong about you. _Maybe_ you’d prefer if I bent you over like a bitch and taught _you_ a lesson.”

Peters eyes flash red at the blatant lack of respect. He’s an _Alpha,_ for fucks sake. He’s not going to let anyone talk to him like that, especially a human.

If this is the game, he’ll play.

“Down on your knees then, if you want a lesson.” He growls, undoing his belt buckle. Stiles obeys with a smirk, sinking to his knees in one fluid movement. Peter undoes his jeans and pulls out his half-hard cock, licking a long stripe up his palm before grasping it again and stroking himself to fullness. 

Stiles is kneeling before him obediently, hands gripping either side of Peter’s thighs, and that goddamn smirk gives Peter the distinct impression that Stiles thinks he’s the one in control. That’s going to change. He’s going to pull the wings off this fly. 

“Open your mouth, _fly,”_ He demands, and doesn’t that pet name just suit him so well? Stiles snorts derisively at the name, as if there’s some inside joke. Then he obliges. Even though his smirk on his lips is gone, it’s still visible in his eyes, lingering. 

Peter tangles the fingers of his left hand in Stiles’ hair, roughly tilting his head to an angle he deems fit. With his right hand, he guides the head of his cock into Stiles’ mouth.

He can’t help the hiss that escapes his clenched teeth. It’s been so long since any touch, sexual or otherwise, hasn’t felt like maggots burrowing under his skin. But there’s none of that now. He grabs a handful of hair with his other hand, and drags Stiles in, thrusting at the same time. 

Stiles gags, and his hold on Peter’s thighs tighten, but he doesn’t fight it. Which of course would be pointless, because he’s no match for Peter. And Peter _wants._ He sets a brutal pace, fucking his cock deep into Stiles’ throat with every thrust. Stiles takes it all, relaxing his jaw and throat to allow the careless intrusion.

“Good fly,” Peter purrs. He feels himself getting close after a ridiculously short time, but it’s been too long since he’s touched another person or had any sexual contact at all, and it’s left him tightly wound. With one final thrust, he holds Stiles flush against his base and comes down his throat with a roar. It’s a few seconds before he feels Stiles fighting against his hold. He lets go and Stiles falls backwards onto his ass, gasping for air.

Peter is a little disappointed to note that he doesn’t look wrecked. In fact, he’s wearing that goddamn smirk again. He wipes the dribble of cum from the side of his mouth with the back of his hand then stands, jutting his chin out. Peter reads it as Stiles challenging him, and he doesn’t even try to clamp down on the rumble that issues from deep within his chest. 

“Your lesson isn’t done, _fly.”_ He growls.

“Good. Because as it stands, I’m still feeling fairly insubordinate.” There’s a dark look in his eyes, in his pose, in his _scent,_ and if Peter was any sort of decent it would have given him pause. Instead, he takes the defiance at face value.

He grabs Stiles by the shoulders of his shirt and drags him towards the large table behind them, throwing him face-first towards it. Stiles hits it hard and his top half bends over the table. He goes to straighten, but Peter grabs his nape and presses the side of his face against the wood. His cock is rapidly hardening again. By the time he’s done unbuttoning, unzipping, and pulling Stiles’ jeans down over his ass with his free hand, he’s fully hard again.

He spits on his hand and runs it down his cock, giving it a new layer of slick, and lines himself up. He lets go of Stiles’ nape in favor of grabbing his hips with both hands, spreading his cheeks with his thumbs. Then he shoves in, burying himself to the hilt without warning. Stiles cries out, but it’s quickly followed by a maniacal laugh.

Just like before, his pace is brutal and unyielding. Stiles reaches to grasp the far edge of the table, pushing back to meet every thrust. Peter’s claws sprout and dig into the hips that he’s bruising with his grip. Stiles makes little noises that tilt between pleasure and pain.

He can’t imagine that the extreme treatment is pleasurable on the receiving end, to a human no less. Curious, Peter focuses on retracting the claws of his right hand then reaches around to grasp Stiles’ dick. Surprisingly it’s hard, and precome is dripping down the underside of it. He really can’t care less if Stiles gets off or not, so he considers it a small act of selfless kindness when he coats his hand in the sticky fluid and jerks him, matching the punishing rhythm as he fucks into the teen who’s caused him so much trouble.

“Never took you for a masochist, Stiles,” He grunts between thrusts.

“Shut up and fuck me harder, Wolf.” Stiles grits back, and who is Peter to deny a request like that?

Stiles is the first to come, a satisfied moan slipping from his lips. Peter places his hand over the head of his dick, capturing his release and running his hand up and down his shaft, milking his orgasm from him. He feels Stiles’ ass clench around his cock. He slams in one more time, burying himself deep and painting his insides white with hot spurts.

Their heavy breathing fills the empty loft. Peter pulls out of Stiles and tucks himself back into his jeans. He doesn’t miss the coppery tang of blood that hangs in the air. Whether it’s from the punctures due to his claws, or the rough treatment he paid to Stiles’ hole, he couldn’t care less. 

He’s caught up in the fact that after all these months, it would appear that _Stiles_ is the only human whose physical contact he can seem to bear. Frankly, it pisses him off. He’s intolerable on the best of days, so full of things like _loyalty,_ and _selflessness,_ and the inability to admit that he’s been defeated, until he finds a way to overcome the task at hand.

Peter has taken deep satisfaction in sullying someone so pure and good.

He presses his hips against Stiles’ bare ass and grabs a handful of hair with the hand covered in cum, pulling him upright, flush against his chest. He yanks his head to the side, and whispers into his ear.

“Did you learn your lesson, _fly?”_

He’s slightly taken aback when Stiles laughs.

“Yeah, I’d say he learned his lesson like a good little schoolboy.”

Peter lets go of him and shoves him away. Stiles turns around and there’s barely-contained mirth that dances in his eyes while he pulls his pants back up. It sets Peter on edge. 

“What is this?” He snarls.

“Stiles wasn’t being a team player; fighting me every step of the way. You know how he can be. So I had to get creative. This whole thing? I allowed him access to _all_ of his senses for that.” He laughs again, and it’s a hollow, soulless sound. “He won’t fight me anymore. Being used by the person he detests the most has sent him cowering into the farthest corners of his psyche.”

Realization dawns on Peter.

“Nogitsune,” he causally observes, and _ah,_ that’s why he had gotten a kick out of being called _fly._

“Nogitsune,” Stiles echos in agreement. “Well, I’ve got to be going now. I’ve got some fun plans that should be panning out _very_ soon.”

He walks past Peter without a glance. At the door though, he stops and turns.

“You know, you would have made one hell of a dark fox,” He says, giving Peter an appraising look. Peter doesn’t know whether he should preen or feel offended. He settles for a sneer with pointed fangs. 

Chapter Two

The second time, it’s all Stiles. 

Peter helped the pack save him, of course. As much as it pained him to do so, he’s hesitant to watch the only human he can comfortably touch die. So when Lydia comes begging for help, he demands that she tell him about his illegitimate child, but it’s mostly a front. He would have helped regardless.

_Something_ crawls out of the floor, covered in gauze, and Peter helps Scott hold it down until they realize it’s Stiles, and the _other_ Stiles is actually the Nogitsune. By then, it’s taken off with Lydia.

While the others move to the connecting room to decide what their next steps will be, Peter stares at the dazed boy. Curious, he reaches out and grabs his hand. Even though he’s no longer possessed by the dark fox, his touch is still the same. Bearable. _Normal._

Stiles rips his hand from Peter’s grasp.

“Don’t touch me!” He yells, voice wavering. “Don’t _fucking_ touch me ever again, you fucking psychopath.”

Stiles looks like he’s close to tears, faking bravado to hide the terror that’s evident in his scent.

“What’s going on?” Scott asks from the doorway, staring at them. Peter, who’s standing a bit too close, and Stiles, who’s recoiled into the couch.

“I was just leaving,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. And he does.

He later hears from Derek that the Argent girl had died fighting the Nogitsune, and Chris and Isaac had fled to France to wallow in their grief together. So Derek is without a pack, once again. He keeps Peter around as a poor imitation of family. He has accepted Peter as his Alpha, but their bond is flimsy at best. In the least, there’s an understanding between the two of them. 

It’s two weeks before he sees Stiles again. The full moon is the following night and he’s restless. He goes out to the Preserve for a long run to expend some pent-up energy. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s been itching to lay his hands on Stiles again. He’s never been much of a tactile man, but his wolf is craving any touch it can get. He wonders if he fucked him again, would he extract those same delicious little noises he had before? He’s interested to know how much of that was the Nogitsune and how much was Stiles. 

When he arrives back to the loft just after midnight, the door is ajar and it immediately sets him on edge. Derek is out of town for the rest of the week, helping The Satomi pack. It’s only a twenty-minute drive, but he’s spending his nights there and no one else has a key. When he silently stalks in, he’s hit with the stench of alcohol and the coppery scent of blood. He can hear quiet sobs coming from the spare, unused room on the far side of the loft.

He creeps up to the doorway and peeks in. Stiles is sitting there with a flashlight sitting upright to light the room. Tears stream down his face, and there’s a bottle of whiskey next to him. There’s not much missing, and Peter guesses that he hasn’t had more than three or four shots worth. He has a butterfly knife pressed against his wrist, and looks like he’s working up the nerve to slash. There are several shallow cuts, but none of them are remotely life-threatening.

“Do it, just _do it,”_ he’s muttering to himself, biting down on his bottom lip.

“What do we have here?” Peter asks, stepping into the room.

Stiles startles with a yelp, and the movement drags the blade across his wrist.

“Fuck, Peter!” He cries out, dropping the knife and gripping his wound. Blood seeps from in between his fingers.

“Why are you staunching the wound, fly? Don’t you _want_ to die?”

“Shut up,” Stiles spits. “And don’t fucking call me _fly,_ asshole.”

“Why not?” Peter asks, walking forward and crouching down in front of him. Stiles recoils, pressing his back against the wall. “It fits you so well. And I had such a _nice_ time plucking off your wings.”

“Stop. Stop talking.” Stiles demands. His voice wavers, but the cold look of hatred on his face is impressive.

Peter ignores Stiles’ words and grabs his wrist, prying his hand off of it. “Why are you here, _fly?”_ He inspects the wound. It’s deeper than the others, but still not enough to be effective.

Stiles tries to pull free from his grip, but it’s a pointless task. He finally gives up with a deep sigh. 

“Needed to make it go away.” He mumbles. “I want to forget. _Everything._ The Nogitsune, Allison… you. I couldn’t do it at home, couldn’t make my dad be the one to find me. Figured I do it here, where someone who doesn’t give a shit could find me instead.”

He’s facing the wall next to them, refusing to look Peter in the eye. He’s wearing a scowl, and he smells equal parts angry and defeated. The tears continue to slide down his cheeks.

Peter takes his shirt off, and Stiles’ head snaps to him, eyes going wide with fear. Peter only rolls his eyes and rips a long strip of fabric, wrapping it several times around his wrist before tying it.

“Um… thanks, I guess?” Stiles says, relaxing slightly.

But Peter isn’t done.

“You said you wanted to forget?” He rubs the backs of his knuckles over Stiles’ cheek. Stiles tries to pull his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. Peter roughly grabs his jaw with a hand and wrenches his head until he’s facing him. “I can help you forget for a little while, fly.”

“Peter, pleas-”

He crushes his lips against Stiles’. Anything else Stiles tries to say is muffled, and Peter isn’t about to let up. This is what he’s been _waiting_ for, what he’s _needed,_ and with the moon so close to full he’s more inclined to follow his base desires.

Stiles is shoving and punching at his chest, kicking his legs and trying to get free. He manages to draw a knee up and nails Peter in the groin. Peter immediately Beta shifts and pulls away to roar in his face, all fangs and claws and red eyes. Stiles cries out and tries to turn his head. All he manages to do is cut his jaw on the claws that clench around it.

“Let’s get one thing straight, _fly,”_ Peter growls through his fangs. He’s done with pretense. “You can either give, or I can _take,_ and only one of those bodes well for you.”

He lets go of Stiles, stands up, and shifts back.

“The choice is yours,” he adds, lifting his arms up at his sides.

Stiles’ heart is beating a mile a minute. It stirs something primal in Peter, but he patiently waits for Stiles to make his decision.

“Peter, _please,”_ Stiles whispers. 

_“Give. Or. Take.”_ Peter bites out the words. Stiles’ features shift, and he gives Peter a look that could be described as pure hatred. He likes it. There’s fire behind those eyes. Stiles grabs the bottle of whiskey and takes several large gulps, coughing after the last one. Then he stands, bottle in hand, and lifts his chin with a sneer.

Peter doesn’t expect it, and that’s why Stiles gets the drop on him. He swings his arm, cracking the bottle against the side of Peter’s face. Peter snarls and swipes blindly, but Stiles is deceptively fast. He can hear footsteps as he races around him and towards the door. Peter shakes his head, wiping off blood and glass, then takes off after him.

He’s almost to the door when Peter leaps, grabbing him by the waist and taking him down. It gives Peter a twisted sense of satisfaction to hear the little noise of pain that issues from Stiles’ lips when they crash to the floor. It sends a thrill through him and riles up his wolf.

He sits up, straddling Stiles, and presses the side of his face into the floor. He can hardly help it when he grinds his hips against Stiles’ ass. He leans forward, blanketing the smaller frame with his own, speaking close to his ear.

“You’re going to pay for that, fly,” He growls, then licks along his neck. Stiles shudders.

“Just fucking kill me then!” He screams, trying in earnest to wriggle out of his grasp. Peter sits back up and laughs.

“You’re not going to get out of it that easy, Stiles,” He says. “I’ll ask you one last time. _Give or take?”_ He grinds down a second time, and groans at the sensation.

“Give, alright you fucking psychopath?” Stiles snaps, and there’s that rage again. Peter was hoping he’d make the right choice. Because flat-out _taking_ is so much less enjoyable than being unwillingly _given._

“Good choice, _fly,”_ He says, hooking the claw of his forefinger under the neck of Stiles’ T-shirt and pulling down until he rips it from top to bottom. Stiles whimpers.

“You might as well let go and enjoy yourself, Stiles. Forget about everything but primal pleasures. I can make it good for you, if you’ll let me.”

What can he say? He’s getting what he wants, and it has put him in a generous mood.

He stands and Stiles stays on the floor, waiting for instruction.

“Get up. I believe you know which bedroom is mine?” He says smoothly.

Stiles stands, the torn shirt falling from his pale frame. Peter licks his lips as he looks him up and down. All of that unblemished skin, just asking to be marked. He watches as Stiles looks towards the door, calculating his chances. He can see the moment his resolve crumbles, his shoulders slumping. He obediently walks to the stairs.

“Good boy,” Peter praises, following him.

When Stiles reaches the doorway he stops, staring straight ahead. Then he turns to Peter and swallows thickly.

“Are you gonna hurt me… like last time?” His voice cracks on the last few words. Peter figures that in this case, transparency is the best policy.

“Probably,” He freely admits with a shrug. “But I think you’ll find that you enjoy it.” He gives Stiles a cruel grin. Stiles swallows again and walks into the room. He stops in front of the bed.

Peter comes up behind him and wraps him in his large arms. Stiles tenses.

“You’re overthinking, Stiles,” He says, sucking a dark bruise on his shoulder. Stiles shivers at the sensation.

“Just fuck me and get it over with,” He bites out, swaying a bit. Peter wishes that he hadn’t taken those extra swigs of whiskey. He wants Stiles lucid for this. He needs to work quickly if he’s going to get what he wants.

“Is that what you want, little fly? Hard and fast? I can oblige.” He shoves Stiles roughly, sending him falling onto the bed. Stiles grunts and bounces, but Peter is right behind him, pinning him against the mattress with his body.

“Gonna open you up and fuck you full, fly,” Peter says, rutting against him.

“Oh god, can we just, like, _not_ with the dirty talk? I’m giving, so I’d like it without the side of audio torture, please.”

Stiles is pushing him, and Peter isn’t quite sure why. Maybe he’s still holding out hope that he’ll kill him after all? Or maybe he’s using humor as a means to dissociate. Regardless, he’s not going to let it ruin the moment.

“I’ll do as I please, fly. And you’re going to give me what I need.”

There’s a fresh burst of salt in the air, and Stiles must be crying again. He pays it no attention. Peter stands, kicking off his shoes and pulling his jogger pants off. He stands there for a second, enjoying the view and casually stroking himself.

Stiles is as far from his type as could be. He prefers women, but men aren’t off the table by any means. Still, someone like Chris Argent, or even the Sheriff is more his taste. Rugged, and his own age. Not like the twink spread out in front of him. And yet, he can hardly wait to bury himself into Stiles and fuck him raw.

“On your knees, fly,” he commands. Stiles is slow to obey, so Peter grips his hips with both hands and roughly hoists him into position. He leans over him and presses his lips to the shell of his ear.

“Keep me waiting, and this is going to be less than enjoyable for you,” he growls.

“You’re assuming I’m going to enjoy to begin with, you fucking psychopath,” Stiles spits, and there’s that fire that thrills Peter. He wonders when Stiles will catch on that being called a ‘fucking psychopath’ only strokes his ego. 

Peter reaches across to the bed stand, pulling a bottle of lube from the drawer. Stiles tracks the movement with his eyes, making a small sound of surprise, but no other acknowledgements. Peter pulls his pajama bottoms down over his ass and gives it a sharp slap. Stiles hisses, and a beautiful red print blooms across the pale skin. The visual spurs his wolf into a near frenzy, and Peter feels like he’s hanging on by a thread.

He squirts a glob of lube directly on to Stiles’ ass and smears it around with two fingers, up and down his crack, ghosting over his hole. Stiles makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and leans forward, away from the touch. Peter firmly grasps his hip with his left hand to still him, and shoves the two fingers in without warning.

Stiles cries out, and tries to scramble away.

“I can’t do this again Peter, _please!_ I don’t wanna give, don’t wanna give,” He sobs. Peter growls and wraps his left arm around his waist to hold him in place, continuing to fuck him with his fingers.

“What did I say, fly?” Peter growls, “I said you’re going to give, or I’m going to take. _Don’t_ make me take.”

Stiles continues to sob and whimper, but stops trying to escape.

“Good boy,” Peter praises. He removes his fingers and rubs them through the mess of lube again before applying it to his cock. Then he grabs Stiles hips with both hands and pulls him back, to the edge of the bed.

“Relax, Stiles. It can be good if you let it be.”

He doesn’t respond.

Peter lines himself up, and pushes forward slowly. It’s a tight fit, and he has to put some force behind it to get the head to pop in. Stiles hisses and whines through his teeth. Peter doesn’t stop though, and continues to push forward until he’s buried to the hilt. He lets out a groan. It feels like ecstasy, like _home._ He could spend all day fucking into Stiles and never grow bored of it.

He slowly pulls back, and then slams in hard. Stiles lets out another cry, trying again to pull away. Peter snarls, willing him to still and take it. Of course, the boy’s always been bullheaded when it comes to self-preservation.

“What did I say, _fly?”_ He grits between thrusts. “You can’t escape if you don’t have any wings.”

He swipes the claws of his right hand across Stiles’ back, leaving five shallow gashes from his left shoulder down to his right hip.

Stiles shrieks.

Peter leans forward and licks the wounds, spreading blood across his face.

“Peter! Stop!” Stiles begs. “You’re hurting me!”

But Peter is on a different plane of existence right now. Anything that isn’t the drag of his cock in and out of Stiles has faded to the background. He feels his fangs drop, and his Beta shift seeps into his features. 

He’s getting close. He can feel his balls tighten, rising closer to his body, and his thrusts are becoming erratic. He’s in a haze, and all that matters is him chasing his release.

“Fuck, Peter! Stop!”

It occurs to him that if Stiles was on the verge of suicide before, there’s a good chance that this will tip him over the edge. He can’t have that. He needs this, the human contact, the delicious hole to fuck himself stupid in. Stiles wants to die? He’ll do him one better. Give him a reason to live again.

“Hurting you?” Peter asks, his voice dropping an octave with his shift. “I haven’t even begun, fly.”

He slams into him one last time, plunging in as deep as he can. At the same time he leans forward and bites down hard on Stiles’ shoulder, piercing through skin and muscle.

Stiles screams. He screams and he struggles and he sobs. Peter stays firmly latched, spilling hot cum into him. He growls, a rumble deep within his chest. Blood pours into and out of his mouth.

It’s a long, tense minute before Stiles stops struggling and Peter finally releases his jaw, stepping back and extracting his claws from puncture wounds he hadn’t even realized he’d made.

Stiles falls to his side, curling into a tight ball.

“What the _fuck,_ Peter,” He sobs, touching the bite wound with a shaky hand.

“You wanted to die,” Peter says, chest heaving from exertion. “There’s a good chance that you’ll get your wish. If you don’t, you’ll become something better. No matter the outcome, I did you a favor.”

Stiles glares at him through a steady stream of tears.

“Full moon’s tomorrow night. If you manage to pull through, meet me at the old Hale house in the preserve.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles snarls pitifully.

“I find that I’m quite fucked out for the night, actually.” Peter says casually. He turns to leave the room. “I’m in sore need of a shower. You know where the door is.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Three: Stiles/Peter
> 
> Warnings: none
> 
> Additional Tags: Infidelity, Human AU

Stiles’ phone rings, rousing him from his nap which he was in  _ no _ way done with. He had a rare day at work where he left on time, and he’s catching up on sleep missed over the weekend.  _ Was  _ catching up on, at least.

He groans and blindly slaps his hand around on the coffee table in front of the couch until he feels his fingers brush the side of his phone. He grabs it and cracks an eye open to see  _ Lyds  _ on the screen. Oh. He usually doesn’t hear from his girlfriend during the week. He hits  _ answer _ and brings the phone to his ear.

“Baaaabe. Wazzup?” He slurs, smacking his lips, voice is still laced with sleep. He yawns while he rolls into his back and stretches, his feet dangling off the end of the couch.

_ “Who the fuck is this?” _ growls a voice on the other end. Low, deep, and most definitely  _ not _ Lydia.

“Who the fuck is  _ this?!”  _ Stiles squeaks, sitting up straight. All thoughts of sleep are forgotten and he’s on high alert.

“I believe I asked you first,” the man says, his voice turning to something more amicable yet no less intimidating. It’s one of those voices that could explain in great detail how they plan on killing you very slowly, all the while making it sound like a pleasure on your behalf.

“Where’s Lyds? Let me talk to her.” He doubts something’s happened, but what if this is some sort of hostage situation? Does the dude want money? If he does, he’s shit outta luck. Stiles is just this side of broke.

The man on the other end snorts.

_ “Lyds  _ left her phone at home. She’s not in danger, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Realization slams into him.  _ Fuck.  _ It’s her  _ dad.  _ The dad that told her he would stop paying her way through beauty school if she started dating. The dad that didn’t let her hang out with friends unless it was the weekend. The dad that was ridiculously controlling, and would probably murder Stiles if he knew the things he did to his daughter every weekend for the last five months.

“Mr. Marino! Fuck, listen. I love your daughter, and I’d never  _ dream  _ of-”

He’s cut off by a sharp bark of humorless laughter.

“I’m not her  _ father,  _ you imbecile. I’m her  _ fiancé.” _

That kind of blindsides Stiles. And also-

“Fuck you.” Stiles growls. Not as impressive as this asshat’s growl, but it’s still impressive in its own right. “I don’t know who the hell you are, or what you’re trying to achieve here, but you aren’t going to call me, spewing lies, trying to push a wedge between Lyds and I. We’re stronger than that.”

His hands are shaking, and when did he stand up and start pacing? But he’s  _ pissed.  _ Lydia is the best thing that’s happened to him in a  _ long _ time. Sure, none of his friends like her all that much, and she can be a little overbearing at times… but no one’s perfect, right? So fuck this dude in his  _ whole _ ass for trying to sully what he and his girl have.

“Please,” The man scoffs. “Your relationship obviously isn’t that special if you were her side piece.” There’s a level of condescending derision in his tone that makes Stiles bare his teeth.

“Why don’t you say that to my face, fucker? 1547 Desoto street. If you’re really her  _ fiancé,  _ you probably want a piece of the guy who’s been keeping her satisfied every weekend since January.” He smiles smugly to himself. Whoever this douche is, he doubts he’s ballsy enough to waltz right into someone else’s territory and-

“You can expect me in fifteen minutes.” The man says, voice silky-smooth and sounding far too laidback. Stunned, Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but the line is cut. He blinks a few times and stares down at his phone. Why the  _ fuck  _ did he give the guy his neighbor's address? Is he insane? In the least, Mr. Burwick is away on vacation, so if the dude tries to do a drive-by or something no one will get hurt.

He grabs his metal bat and sits at the window, peeking out from 1549 Desoto at his neighbor’s house. He chews a nail, trying not to panic. He’s a cop’s son, right? He can handle some rando who probably found Lyds’ phone dropped on the sidewalk and wanted to fuck around with the first person on her call list.

Seven minutes later - and he only knows that because he’s been obsessively glancing at his phone every ten seconds - there’s a knock at his door. Seriously? He doesn’t have time for Jehovah’s Witnesses or magazine salesmen. He lives in a predominantly elderly neighborhood and it’s a hotspot for anything door-to-door.

He ignores it but they knock again, more insistently this time. Stiles reluctantly leaves his post, grumbling to himself the entire time. He drops the bat on his couch on his way by and wrenches the door open, ready to tell off whatever peddler of the week it is. The words die in his throat when he takes in the vision before him.

The man is all muscle. Thick neck, bulging biceps, and he can pretty much count the washboard abs through his painted-on v-neck. He gives Stiles a toothy, predatory grin, and Stiles pales a little. He suddenly gets the impression that this isn't a salesman. His fingers grasp at the air, and Stiles wishes that he hadn’t left the bat on the couch.

“Can I help you?” He asks, trying to put on a strong front. He puffs his chest, but his voice wavers, which doesn’t do much for him. The man steps forward into Stiles’ personal space, and he’s forced to take a step backwards. Unless he wants to be plastered to the man, which in any other situation, maybe.

“You must be the little punk who’s fucking my fiancée,” the man purrs, and it’s such a stark contrast to how Stiles thinks he should sound. It’s extremely unsettling and he audibly gulps. The man steps forward again and closes the door behind him. Stiles backs up until his thighs bump the armrest of the couch.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, or why you’re convinced that Lyds is your fiancée, but she’s been my girlfriend for five months, dude. You need some serious help.” He’s groping around behind him as casually as he can, searching for a touch of cool metal.

“The only person who’s going to need some serious help is  _ you  _ if you attempt to hit me with that bat.” The man arches a brow, and Stiles freezes. “Besides, I’m not here to harm you. Only to shed some light on the situation and possibly save you from the same heartache I’ve incurred.”

That gives Stiles pause. He doesn’t  _ seem  _ particularly nefarious, if you don’t take into account his overall demeanor. Stiles can tell that he’s the type of man who’s used to getting what he wants or pushing until he does. Just like Lydia.

“How did you know that this was my house?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. “And how did you get here so fast?”

“I was already on my way,” he reveals. “I’ve had my suspicions about my sneaky little minx for a few weeks now. So I set a tracker on her phone and saw that she spent the bulk of her weekends here.”

“That’s kind of  _ really _ creepy,” Stiles says honestly. The man only shrugs in response.

“I’ve had no reason to do it in the past. She gave me no inkling to doubt her.”

“How do I know you’re not making this all up?” Stiles challenges, still not quite ready to believe that Lydia - his  _ Lyds  _ \- has been cheating on him this entire time. Or rather, cheating  _ with  _ him.

The man sighs and rolls his eyes, like he literally can’t even right now. He reaches into his pocket and Stiles tenses, but all he does is pull out his phone and tap away at the screen before holding it up for Stiles to see. It’s a selfie of him and Lydia smiling, beach in the background.

“Aruba, three months ago,” He says, pointing to the date at the bottom of the picture. Stiles’ stomach drops. He remembers Lyds being gone for two weekends about three months ago. She said she was visiting her mother in Montana. The man flips to a different picture, another selfie, this time with the Eiffel Tower behind them.

“Paris, six months ago.” Another one. “London, eight months ago. Tokyo, one year ago.”

Stiles deflates, dropping his weight on the armrest behind him and slumping his shoulders.

“Those could be photoshopped,” He says weakly. He doesn’t really think they are, but he’s just so damn heartbroken right now. He’s glaring at the man’s feet, and he can feel his bottom lip start to tremble. He bites down on it in a poor attempt to still it.

“What’s your name?” The man asks gently. He obviously took little pleasure in rubbing the facts in Stiles’ face, and he can at least appreciate that.

“Stiles.” He mumbles, still looking dejectedly at the floor.

“I’m Peter.” A hand is thrust in his line of vision, and he looks up to the man - Peter - before grasping it and giving him a firm shake. He loosens his grip, but Peter keeps hold of his hand. “How would you like to blow off some steam and help me throw all of her shit out of my house?”

That sounds cathartic. Stiles grins and lets Peter hoist him up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Four: Stiles/Chris
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Additional notes: Infidelity

_ “We just got a call from Beacon Tavern, some drunk guy is trying to unlock his car.” _

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes, turning to look at his partner.

“Ten bucks says it’s Leroy again,” He says.

Derek snorts in reply and switches lanes while Stiles picks up the receiver.

“We have ten minutes before our shift ends. We’ll deal with it.”

Erica’s sultry voice crackles through the radio,  _ “Well don’t take too long, sweet cheeks. You know how much I love seeing Derek in uniform before I leave.” _

Stiles busts out laughing.

_ “Erica,”  _ the sheriff’s voice cuts through,  _ “For the last time, keep it off the airwaves. Everyone can hear you.” _

_ “Yessir, papa bear. Over and out.” _

Stiles starts choking, he’s laughing so hard. He can picture his dad’s face now, rosed with equal parts exasperation and embarrassment. John doesn’t even respond, and Stiles can just as easily picture Erica’s Cheshire grin.

“You’re girlfriend’s a freak, Hale,” Stiles cajoles once he can get a decent lungful of air in. Derek gives him a long-suffering glance before looking back at the road.

“You have no idea.  _ Scratches down my back,  _ Stiles. She’s a feisty little thing,” he says with a fond smile. 

Stiles smiles too. He’s happy for Derek, really. He tries not to let any of his personal loneliness leech into the moment and sully their comradery.

Not soon after, they pull into Beacon Tavern’s parking lot and the headlights illuminate a bumbling Chris Argent.

“Aw, shit,” Stiles says under his breath, getting out of the car before Derek’s had a chance to put it in park. “Chris! Hey!”

He walks over to Chris, who’s busy scratching up the door of his black Tahoe trying to get the key in the lock.

“S’iles?” Chris looks up at him, stumbling as he brings a hand up to block the headlights. Just by looks alone, Stiles knows he’s  _ bad.  _ Chris and his husband, Peter - who also happens to be Derek’s uncle - have been close friends with his dad for as long as he can remember. So he’s seen Chris drunk before, knows the signs. The man can hold his liquor, and even when he’s quite a few in he’s relatively stoic.

But tonight he looks like an absolute mess. His eyes have that dazed look that they get when he’s had far too much. Stiles turns back to the cruiser and talks to Derek through his open window.

“I’ll drive him home. Just, don’t tell Dad? Please?” Stiles knows that Chris will be hard enough on himself the next morning. He doesn’t need to have John’s disapproval piled on as well.

Derek looks uncomfortable about being asked to lie to not only his boss, but a man that he looks up to as a father figure. Stiles feels a stab of guilt for asking.

“I mean, do what you gotta do,” Stiles says with a shrug. “I don’t want you feeling any sort of way.”

“Nah, we’re good.” Derek says, brushing it off. “Take care of Uncle Chris, yeah?”

Stiles nods and steps back, letting Derek drive away. He turns back to Chris, who’s back to chipping the paint off of his SUV.

“I’m gonna drive you home, Chris.” He says, turning off his radio. His shift is nearly over and he wants all of his attention on Chris. Something isn’t right and it rankles him.

He gently takes the keys out of Chris’ hands and leads him over to the passenger side. Chris silently allows himself to be herded, stumbling over his own two feet. Stiles helps him into his seat and leans over to buckle him in.

“Not a damn child, Stiles,” Chris slurs. He doesn’t sound angry though, moreso disgruntled. “I’m a grown-ass man.”

“I’ll tell you what, when I get you home you can unbuckle yourself, just like a big boy.”

Chris snorts and lets his head fall back against the headrest. Stiles closes his door and rounds the vehicle, getting into the driver's seat and starting the car. They have a few minutes to kill before they get to Chris’ house, and Stiles takes that time to gently prod.

“You want to tell me what this is all about?” He asks once they pull out onto the main road. “This isn’t like you, man.”

Chris sighs loudly, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Peter’s cheating on me.”

“I- what?” That’s the last thing he was expecting to hear and it throws him off. “Bullshit. Peter is stupidly devoted to you.”

“It’s true. With that Lydia girl.” Chris carelessly waves his hand in the air and Stiles has to lean away to avoid being slapped.

“His assistant?” He asks dubiously. Because sure, she’s hot, but this is  _ Peter  _ they’re talking about.

“Yup. got an email.”

“You got... an email,” Stiles repeats slowly. “You realize how shady that sounds, right?”

“Didn’t want to believe it,” Chris mutters. “But it was all there. Pictures, overheard conversations. I know the email was sent by someone who works with him, someone who sees things that I don’t.”

“That’s preposterous and you know it. Whoever sent that to you sounds slimier than a snake. They’re just trying to rile you up.”

“Snakes aren’t slimy,” Chris murmurs, looking out his window.

“Hey! Not the point. I refuse to believe that Peter is cheating on you. You two are perfect together.”

Chris sighs and looks at Stiles. He can see the tired heartbreak in the man’s eyes and it makes Stiles own heart clench painfully.

“It all adds up, Stiles. He’s been out late every night, bringing her out to business dinners… he even brought her with him on the business trip he’s on right now. Said he  _ needed  _ her to be there.”

And that? That makes Stiles angry. Because Chris is a good fucking husband. He’s seen everything that Chris has given up to support Peter’s career. He left the force six years ago so Peter could follow his dreams. If it’s true…

“You shouldn’t… you need to hear his side,” Stiles says, but it lacks conviction. Chris probably picks up on it.

“He’s already gone,” He whispers.

“Well either way, that doesn’t give you permission to drive drunk,” Stiles says, feeling his officer side come out. “You could have hurt someone. Could have hurt  _ yourself,  _ Chris. That was really stupid.”

Chris has the good sense to look admonished, dropping his head and staring at his intertwined hands in shame.

“ ‘m sorry, Stiles.”

“Just, don’t pull a stunt like that again. You have people who care about you, man. And if Peter really is cheating on you, you know Pops and I have your back. Hell, Derek’ll have your back too.” He reaches over and gives Chris’ shoulder a squeeze. Chris clasps his hand over Stiles’ and returns the gesture before letting his hand drop back into his lap.

Stiles pulls into the driveway not long after and walks around the car to help Chris out. He’s a mess, stumbling sideways and giggling all the while.

“What’s so funny there, big guy?” Stiles asks, slinging Chris’ arm over his shoulder so he can help him get to the front door safely.

“Pet’r thinks he’s winning. But I’ve got a waaay hotter piece of young ass next to me than he does.”

Stiles ducks his head and blushes. It’s not as if he  _ hasn’t  _ thought of Chris in that way before - he’s got eyes, all right? - but at the end of the day, he’s his dad’s friend, he’s married, and he’s  _ drunk. _

“Thanks for the compliment, buddy,” He says, patting Chris’ chest and playing it off. “Let’s get you inside.”

It’s a bit of a challenge unlocking the door with Chris leaning heavily on him, but he finally manages it. They step inside and Chris throws himself down on the couch, hooking his legs over the armrest and throwing an arm over his eyes.

“When will Peter be home?” Stiles asks, unlacing Chris’ shoes and easing them off.

“Tomorrow night,” Chris mutters, not helping with the shoe process in the least. “That’s if he even calls this place home anymore.”

Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes. He feels like Chris is being dramatic, but a tiny part in the back of his mind eats away at him. Could Peter really cheat on Chris? They’ve always seemed perfectly happy to Stiles, but there’s a stark difference to how people act in public and how they act at home. And some cheaters are very careful. If anyone could cheat and get away with it, it would be Peter. He’s meticulous and detail-oriented.

He feels a sudden spike of anger. Because he’s not only friends with Chris, he’s close to Peter too. And for Peter to cheat on Chris? It feels like a betrayal of Stiles’ trust as well.

“Yeah, well if that’s how he wants to play it, you don’t need him.” It’s the wrong thing to say, but Stiles can’t stop himself.

He helps Chris off the couch and follows him up the stairs to his bedroom. Chris breaks away to the en-suite, and Stiles goes back downstairs to grab a few things. When he comes back, Chris is standing near the bed, face and hair wet from having splashed water on himself. 

“You good?” He asks.

Chris swallows thickly.

“Yeah, I uh… I’m feeling a little better.” He sits on the side of the bed and Stiles hands him a glass of water and two aspirin. He obediently takes them and drinks half of the water in one go.

“Okay. If you think you’re good-” Stiles is cut off when Chris grabs his wrist.

“Stay with me.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Stiles doesn’t know how to respond. There are so many lines that could be crossed and he has to try hard to remind himself of them. Because Chris just looks so damn  _ defeated  _ right now.

“I can’t… Chris, you know I can’t.” Is the best he can do. It’s flimsy, but maybe Sober Chris would have let him leave. Drunk Chris has more pliant morals.

“Please, Stiles. Don’t leave me alone. I can’t sleep alone tonight. Not knowing that he’s…”

Chris finally breaks down. He lets go of Stiles to bury his face in his hands, crying into them. It splits Stiles’ heart in two. He pulls Chris up and hugs him fiercely.

“Hey, hey. If you need me to stay the night, sure man. Of course. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” comes Chris’ broken reply.

He’s not really crossing any lines, right? Chris is just having a rough time and needs a friend to lean on. So Stiles lays down with Chris, listening to his sniffles and hiccups, feeling like their roles are strangely switched. Chris has always been the rock, the tough one, the consoling one. It rocks Stiles to the core, seeing a man he looks up to with so much adoration, reduced to something small and broken.

\- - -

Later, when Stiles is laying in Chris and Peter’s bed with nothing but his T-shirt and boxers, Chris laying next to him snoring softly, he reaches over Chris to the nightstand and grabs Chris’ phone. Punches in the password, because of course he’s known it for like three years now, and Chris is a creature of habit. There’s two missed calls from Peter and a text message that reads,  _ Derek told me you were drunk. Are you okay?  _ Stiles snorts. Let the bastard stew for the night.

He opens the email app, and clicks the third one down, the one titled ‘thought you should know’. He scrolls through pictures of Peter with his assistant. Him, with his hand on her thigh. Him, whispering something too close to her ear while she giggles. Him, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Him, pinning her against the wall while his hand travels up her blouse. The pictures look like they were taken with a hidden camera. A part of him wonders about that, thinks about the invasion of privacy, but a larger part doesn’t care. He doesn’t bother to read the rest, just locks the phone and leans back over Chris to quietly place his it back on the nightstand.

When he settles back down, Chris mutters something and rolls towards Stiles, curling into his side and slinging an arm over his stomach. Stiles tenses, then sinks into the touch, letting himself enjoy it. He knows that this can’t end well, but honestly? If Peter isn’t going to be there for his husband,  _ someone  _ has to be.

Regardless of the shitstorm that’s sure to rain down, Stiles is more than willing to be that someone.

Chapter Two

Stiles wakes suddenly and violently to someone wrenching him forward by the collar of his shirt while snarling,  _ “You sonuvabitch!” _

He yelps and swings blindly, the morning sun too bright for his eyes. His fist connects with soft flesh and he hears a satisfying  _ oomph  _ before he’s let go. He’s halfway off the edge of the bed and flails to the floor in a tangle of blankets.

He jumps up just as fast, fists held out in front of him, blinking against the stark light. He’s finally able to piece together what’s happened when he sees Peter leaning against the bed, holding his side.

“I treated you like family!” Peter spits, glaring at Stiles as he stands straight. Stiles feels a grim sense of satisfaction that he’s obviously still favoring where Stiles hit him.

Chris is rousing from the other side of the bed, looking confused.

“Peter?” He says in a sleep-thick voice. Stiles has always loved the way he sounds in the morning.

“Don’t pretend like I’m the bad guy, you complete ass!” Stiles snarls. How  _ dare  _ Peter waltz in after probably fucking his assistant silly all night, lay his hands on Stiles, then pretend like  _ he’s _ the one who’s been wronged?

“Stiles, please,” Chris mumbles, straining to sit up.

“No!” Stiles shouts at Chris, turning to look back at Peter and pointing an accusatory finger his way. “Chris loved you, Peter. He fucking  _ trusted  _ you.”

“ _ He  _ trusted  _ me?”  _ Peter scoffs. “I trusted  _ both  _ of you!” He sneers cruelly. “Is this some sort of daddy issue thing?”

Stiles sees red. Chris shouts, but he’s already halfway to Peter, arm cocked back. Peter’s eyes go wide, and he’s just a second too late when he tries to move.

Stiles hits him square in the jaw.

Peter goes down, and Stiles follows, flipping him into his stomach and straddling his thighs. He twists one of Peter’s arms back and sits forward to push a knee into the center of his spine. Peter’s a strong dude, but Stiles works out six times a week. He looks small but he’s stacked.

Stiles leans forward to yell in his face.

“What the fuck is your  _ deal,  _ Peter?!” 

Peter’s face is beat red and he struggles to escape, but all Stiles has to do is twist his arm a bit more and Peter goes pliant beneath him with a gasp.

“Stiles, calm down.” Chris’ hand settles on his shoulder. Stiles almost shakes it off, but he takes a deep breath instead.

“Chris,” Peter whines from beneath him, and honestly it’s a little pathetic.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen Peter,” Stiles cuts him off. “You’re going to pack a bag, then you’re going to leave. You’re going to give Chris the space he deserves. You aren’t going to contact him. He’ll contact you when he’s ready. Understand?”

Peter bares his teeth in defiance, so Stiles adds a little more pressure to his arm.

“Fine!” Peter finally spits. “Just get the fuck off of me.”

Stiles stays there for a few seconds, then gets up. Peter is slower to get up, still favoring his side and now his arm as well. Stiles stands back but stays between Peter and Chris. He tells himself that it’s the cop in him, keeping Chris safe, but he knows deep down that that’s not it.

Peter straightens and makes a show of righting his jacket.

“If that’s what you want, Christopher.” He looks past Stiles to Chris with an expectant look. Stiles turns to look at Chris. 

“It’s… that’s what I want.” Chris says in a small voice, not meeting Peter’s steely gaze. Stiles turns to look back at Peter, and it’s like the man deflates.

“Okay then,” he says, clearly trying to keep his voice even. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be gone.”

Stiles very suddenly feels like he’s intruding on a private moment, but he’s not about to leave Chris alone with this wolf in sheep’s clothing for a single minute. Peter is the slickest talker he knows, and he wouldn’t put it past him to convince Chris that it was only one time.

“We’ll wait in the kitchen,” Chris says gruffly, scrubbing a hand over his face and walking out of the room. Stiles glares at Peter. He looks so broken. But of course he does; he thought he could have his cake and eat it too. Chris doesn’t deserve to be treated like that. Peter doesn’t glare back, doesn’t say anything, just looks down at his feet.

Stiles grabs his uniform on the way out, not wanting to leave his gun with Peter. He doesn’t think he’d hurt them, doesn’t think he’d hurt himself, but then again he never thought that he’d cheat on Chris either. They’d always seemed so  _ happy. _

Stiles pulls on his pants as he walks into the kitchen, drops his utility belt and the rest of his uniform on the counter with a loud thump. Chris winces from where he’s sitting at the island bar.

“Advil?” Stiles asks, walking up behind him.

“Already took some,” Chris replies. Stiles wants to give him a hug, but it feels a little weird. Peter obviously thought they’d slept together. Which, they technically did, but they didn’t  _ sleep together  _ sleep together. In the end, he settles for patting Chris on the back twice and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before walking over to the coffee machine and starting a brew.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asks conversationally, throwing two pieces of bread into the toaster. “I haven’t seen you that drunk since Dad completely murdered you at beer pong six years ago.”

That elicits a chuckle out of Chris, and Stiles preens at the noise. The groan that follows is less satisfying.

“Physically? I feel like shit. Emotionally? Yeah, that feels like shit too.”

Stiles can’t stop himself. He steps up behind Chris and wraps an arm around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. Chris sighs and leans into his touch.

“You know, he thinks I’m cheating on him with you,” Chris says.

Stiles shrugs uncomfortably, still hugging Chris from behind.

“Good. Let him feel some of what you’re going through.” He stands up and ruffles Chris’ bedhead. “It’s adorable that he thinks you could land someone as hot as me.”

Chris chuckles again and shoves stiles’ hand out of his hair.

“Everything will be okay,” Stiles says in a more serious tone, wrapping his arm around Chris once more and giving him a fierce hug. “Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

Chris grabs his forearm and clings to it like a lifeline. It’s almost uncomfortably intimate, but Stiles pushes the thought away. This is about helping Chris through his breakup, and not by being a rebound. He’s not going to take advantage of Chris like that.

The clearing of a throat jumps both of them. Stiles lets go of Chris, embarrassed to be caught indulging in his touch.

“I guess I’ll be heading out, then.” Peter’s holding a large suitcase and he looks like he’s been crying. His voice is even though, his hair is fixed, and his suit is straightened. If it weren’t for his red-rimmed eyes, you’d never know. “I’ll be staying at the Marriott when you’re ready to talk.”

He turns stiffly and walks towards the door. He opens it and pauses with his hand or the knob, speaking without turning around.

“All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy, Christopher. If your happiness is with someone else, then so be it.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but a hand on his arm gives him pause. He looks at Chris, who just shakes his head with a sad look. So Stiles waits until Peter closes the door, starts his car, and drives away.

“That gaslighting fucker,” He all but growls. “He’s the one who cheated on you!”

Stiles marches over to the counter, slams two mugs down, and pours the coffee with such carelessness that he spills it on the counter. He makes a noise of frustration and grips the edge of the counter, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath.

“I thought I was the one who’s supposed to be having a mental breakdown?” Chris chides, resting his hand on the small of Stiles’ back. Stiles fights the shiver that threatens to run the length of his spine.

“I’m sorry. I’m making this about me.” He turns around and leans back against the counter with his arms crossed. “It’s just… I really care about both of you. Seeing you treated like this, it hurts. Seeing Peter act like that… that hurts too. He was right about one thing. We treated each other like family.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you need to choose between us. I won’t hold it against you if you want to retain your friendship with him. You two have a lot of history.”

Stiles snorts.

“Are you kidding me? He broke one of my best buddy’s hearts. Fuck ‘im.”

Chris smiles and ruffles Stiles’ hair till it’s a mess.

“Hey!” Stiles yelps as if he didn’t just do the same thing not five minutes ago. He ducks out of the way, all the while wearing a big stupid grin on his face. There’s the Chris he knows.

“No chick flick moments.” Chris says. “I need coffee, a shower, and something greasy.”

“Leave the greasy to me,” Stiles replies, opening the fridge and digging through it. “Breakfast will be ready in twenty.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Five: Stiles/Derek
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Additional notes: Canon-Divergent after the Hale Fire.

Derek and Peter chase after the man, cornering him in an alley behind a few businesses in the downtown area. He turns left, then right, searching for an escape route. However, the buildings are several stories tall and the fire escapes are drawn. He turns to face them, a look of confidence in his face that really has no right to be there.

Derek and his uncle stop fifteen feet from him, fangs dropped, claws out, and eyes glowing. Derek growls lowly. He’s not getting away. They  _ finally _ have him.

Then one of the side doors open.

Derek spins and snarls on instinct. A teen with baggy clothes, holding a sack of trash in either hand, is frozen at the threshold. 

_ Shit.  _

“Um, the three of you-”

There’s a fluttering noise and he turns just in time to see the guy twist and twirl as a tornado of feathers envelope him. He’s soon enveloped so completely that Derek temporarily loses sight of him. Once the cyclone settles, and raven the size of a child is left in its wake. It stoops low, then launches himself skyward, flying off with a cackling caw. 

He turns back to the kid, who’s staring skyward. 

“That’s a new one.” He mutters under his breath. Then he lowers his eyes back to Derek, before the rest of his head follows. “Sorry, I meant two. The  _ two  _ of you can’t be back here.” He eyes Derek’s claws, and then looks at Peter.

Derek is frozen. He doesn’t know what to do in a situation like this. Usually when someone sees him in his beta shift, there’s a lot more screaming. This kid acts like it’s just another Tuesday. 

“I’m not a t-rex. Standing still won’t make you invisible to my eyes. Also, Erica saw you guys take off back here, so you’re not a figment of my imagination. Take whatever nefarious deeds you have planned to any other alley but this one.”

Derek stands straight and frowns. The kid looks at him for a second, then nods, seemingly satisfied. He walks in front of them, across the alley over to the dumpster, and tosses the trash in. Next to Derek, Peter is still in his beta shift and crouched defensively.

The kid ignores them completely, bending over to pick up a large stray feather that had fallen in the vagrant’s escape. 

“Huh.” He says curiously, pocketing the feather. Then turns to face them. “You can go now.” His eyes scrutinize Peter, and Derek waits for the screaming to start. Instead, the boy simply says, “that’s a really nice jacket,” and walks back into the restaurant, closing the door behind him. 

They’re stunned silence lasts for a few seconds longer, then he and Peter shifts back. 

“What the fuck was  _ that?” _ He asks. Derek doesn’t miss the way he rubs a hand down the front of his jacket, pleased with the earlier comment. 

“I don’t know. He didn’t smell afraid. Maybe he’s familiar with the supernatural?”

“Even someone familiar with the supernatural wouldn’t treat two shifted wolves so carelessly. I don’t like it. We need to see what he knows. And we also need to find out what the fuck that  _ thing  _ we chased here was.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. He’s still a little thrown, to be honest. He clears his throat. “I’ll follow the kid. You get back to the loft and make some calls, find out what the hell it is we’re up against, and see if it has any weaknesses.”

Peter grabs a handful of feathers and takes off without another word. Derek stands in the alley for a minute, collecting himself. 

_ Who the hell is this kid? _

\- - -

He pokes around the alley long enough to pick up a decent scent of the kid, then heads to the front of the building. His scent is vaguely familiar, but he can’t place it. 

He catches the scent again around a ragged blue Jeep. He makes a note of the license plate and looks through the windows to see if he can find anything that will clue him in on just what they’re dealing with. He sees a lacrosse stick, the front of a Beacon Hills Jersey, a bookbag, and a stack of school books. He also sees an array of loose papers. Among them are college pamphlets. So a senior, most likely. 

It’s a short jog to his car, parried at the loft. Then he drives back and parks it where he can see the Jeep, but far enough away to not be noticed. He checks his clock. 9:30pm. So the restaurant - an ice cream parlour, he realizes - has been closed for half an hour, and the kid should be heading out any time now. 

The kid and a teenage girl - Erica, he’s guessing - leave the shop after the lights are turned off. The kid waves goodbye to the girl, staying by the door to lock up. He trips over his own two feet on his way to his Jeep, and Derek snorts. Even for a human, he’s already picked up that the kid is less than graceful. He has a confident but goofy walk about him. 

He loads up into his Jeep and takes off. Derek follows him, keeping one or two cars between them. It’s a Thursday night, so the traffic isn’t bad enough to where he’s in danger of losing him. 

He follows him for ten minutes, to the other side of town. He wouldn’t call it the slums, that’s further south, but it’s the lower-income area of Beacon hills. Modest houses, used cars, and kids that work to help out their parents. These houses are actually on the edge of the preserve, and his old house is maybe a mile from here. 

The kid pulls into a driveway that also houses the Sheriff’s patrol car.  _ Shit.  _ He realizes now where he knows the scent. He has a familial connection to the Sheriff, who he’s had a few run-ins with. Of  _ course _ the person who sees him and Peter beta-shifted would be the Sheriff’s son. 

He parks his car at the end of the block and stalks to the house, keeping to the shadows. He crouches next to the living room window at the side of the house, and focuses his ears on the conversation inside.

The Sheriff is watching a football game, and he turns it down when his son walks in. 

“Hey, kiddo. How was work?” 

“Okay, I guess. I saw a man turn into a hugeass raven. Even for me, it was pretty fantastical.”

He hears the Sheriff sigh. He sounds tired. 

“Better write it in the journal, son.”

“Yup. Will do, Pops.” He hears a kiss, and then tracks the kids’ movements to the second floor. He walks around to the back of the house and watches the windows until he sees a light flick on. Then he jumps up to a portion of roof that’s level with the window. It’s dark enough that the kid shouldn’t see him. 

The kid is sitting at his computer desk, leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the desk. He’s holding the feather between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it slowly and giving it a curious look. 

“I feel you,” He says cryptically. Then he places it on his desk and leaves the room. Derek hears the shower turn on. He feels his phone vibrate and pulls it out of his pocket. 

It’s Peter. 

_ Talked to Sonomi. She couldn’t help, but Chris says he’ll look through his bestiary and call me in the morning.  _

He types out a quick reply:

_ Sounds good. Still working on my end of things. The kid is the Sheriff’s son. Not sure what it means. I’ll be home soon.  _

Derek feels eyes on him. He looks up to see the kid frozen in his doorway. The light of his phone is lighting up Derek’s face, and he there’s no way the kid  _ doesn’t  _ see him.

_ Fuck. _

He turns off his phone and stays still. The kid definitely saw him though. And he doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there. 

After a few seconds that feel more like minutes, the kid shakes his head slightly and mumbles  _ nope.  _ Then turns back around and walks away, presumably to the bathroom. 

Derek is dumbfounded. Who the hell  _ is  _ this kid? Someone who is so unphased by the supernatural, or a man perched by his second-story window, that he ignores it? And his father  _ must _ be privy to it all as well. The kid had told him in no uncertain terms about the raven, and his dad seemed… defeated more than anything. 

He hops off the roof and heads back to the loft. He can’t make heads or tails of the entire situation, and the more pressing matter right now is this shapeshifter that’s killing indiscriminately and ripping the hearts from its victims. Derek and Peter are guessing that he’s eating them, but they have no concrete proof. 

They had only happened on him by accident tonight. They were running off some excess energy in the Preserve when they caught the scent of blood on the breeze. He was standing over his latest victim, and his hand was transformed into something almost talon-like. Derek had flashed his eyes with a snarl, and the man had just grinned before taking off into town. 

He hadn’t smelt like anything Derek knew. The avian tinge to his scent had been a mystery until he’d turned into that massive bird. By  _ that _ point, Derek was too distracted by the nonchalant boy. 

He parks the Camaro and heads inside, taking the elevator to the top floor. Peter has left the loft door open,  _ again.  _

“Uncle Peter, you can’t just leave this open.” Derek scolds, sliding the large metal door shut behind him. 

“For the last time, Derek. We  _ own  _ the entire building. No one can get in but us.”

“Still, better safe than sorry,” replies Derek. It’s an argument that they’ve had multiple times now. Derek is counting down the days until the floor below is renovated, when Peter and Chris will move downstairs. He doesn’t mind them staying with him, but he also misses his own space. 

“So what about this boy?” Peter asks. He’s got about twenty tomes spread out over the large table that they use as a base of operations. He doesn’t even look up from his work. 

“Didn’t learn much. He’s the sheriff’s son, and he freely told him about seeing the shifter. Nothing about us, though. He talked to the feather he picked up. ‘I feel you’, he said. He even saw me on his roof - I  _ know,  _ the damn phone screen lit my face - but all he did was turn around and go about his business. Honestly, he’s more of an enigma than this shifter is.”

Peter hums. 

“Will you follow him tomorrow as well? He may be privy to whatever it is we’re dealing with. We need to know if he’ll be an issue.”

“Yeah. He goes to Beacon Hills High, so he’ll be at school for most of the day. I can observe from afar. So Chris is looking into this?”

“That he is. He hasn’t heard of a creature such as ours, but his father’s bestiary is bound to turn up  _ something.  _ If not, he’ll start making calls. Honestly, he chooses the worst of times to fly across the country.” 

Derek makes a noise of agreement. Chris is on the east coast, attending a national gun show. It’s been planned for months and Peter still threw a fit like a spoilt child before he left. 

_ “You know you can’t come with me, baby,” Chris had told Peter. “The place will be crawling with hunters. Hunters like my dad and Kate. I can keep you guys safe in California, but you’re free game outside of the state. It’s not safe.” _

Peter had sulked for the entire day after he left. Honestly, he’s thirty-five years old, not fourteen. You think he’d be past the pining by now. 

“You said Beacon Hills?” Peter asks, looking up.

“Yeah. Why?” Derek asks. There’s three different high schools in the city’s limits. All of the smaller towns surrounding Beacon Hills attend them. 

“Allison goes to Beacon Hills. Maybe she knows him? I’ll ask her tomorrow morning.” 

Allison, Chris’ daughter, lives in an apartment on the first floor of the building. Her mother was furious when Peter and Chris announced their relationship and that they were moving in together. She had sworn up and down that she would sue for custody and drag Allison to Texas before allowing her daughter to share the same walls with a ‘bloodthirsty beast’. No one wanted that, least of all Allison. 

So they’d compromised with Victoria, and Allison was more than happy to get her own apartment at only seventeen. Peter and Chris were happy too. They got to live close, but not too close. Derek could attest that they were  _ loud  _ in the bedroom, and no child wants to hear their father like that. Hell, no nephew wants to hear their  _ uncle _ like that, and yet here they were. 

Derek sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. 

“Well I’m wiped. I’m gonna heat up some leftovers and head to bed.” 

Peter’s already back to his research, and the only indication Derek gets that he’s been heard is a grunt. 

He eats, showers, and lays in his bed. He can't seem to get the Stilinski boy out of his head. He wonders what the kid has gone through, what he’s seen that make him write off the things that would send most people running. He finds himself looking forward to observing him tomorrow, if only to get some answers. 

\- - -

Peter wakes him up the next morning at an ungodly hour. 

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead. Time for school!” Then he laughs to himself the entire length hallway and down the stairs. Derek lets a growl rumble deep in his chest.  _ Ugh.  _ How he survived high school hours, he’ll never fully understand. 

He sits up and stretches his arms high above his head, getting his blood moving. He throws on a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, heading downstairs and following the scent of fresh coffee. Allison is sitting at the kitchen island, dressed, pretty, and smiling. 

“Hey, Derek!” She says cheerfully. He gives her a half-hearted smile. He needs his coffee before pleasantries happen. 

“So, as I was saying,” Peter says from the flat cooktop where he’s finishing off a massive portion of eggs, hash browns, and bacon, “the sheriff’s son. Do you know who that is?”

Derek pours coffee in his cup, followed by a sprinkle of cinnamon. 

“Yeah, that’s Stiles. I kind of know him. He’s best friends with Scott.”

Derek turns to lean against the counter, enjoying his first delicious sip. 

“And who might this Scott fellow be?” Peter asks casually while he plates the food. Allison ducks her head and blushes. 

“Oh, just some boy. He sits behind me in history. He’s really nice.” 

Peter looks at Derek and raises an eyebrow. Derek just shrugs back at him. Peter puts the plates down at the island, one in front of Allison, and then the other two side by side. Peter sits next to her, and Derek takes his seat next to him. 

“Does  _ Scott _ know that you have a hunter and two werewolves that will break his knees if he treats you wrong?” Peter asks. 

“Peter!” She squawks. “We’re just  _ friends.  _ Well, for now at least. He asked me to next week's formal.” She has a shy grin on her face. 

Derek remembers feeling like that. Young, falling for the first person who shows you kindness, believing in true love and everything it entails. It makes him wistful. 

“Good!” Peter exclaims. She gives him a look of suspicion. “He can pick you up here, of course.” The smile on his face is downright predatory. 

Derek snorts at her expression. She’s sitting there with her mouth open. 

“Peter, I like Scott. Don’t scare him away. Anyways, why do you ask about Stiles?” 

Derek pipes up. 

“He caught a glimpse of the thing that’s been picking off citizens. Didn’t seem the least bothered by it, though.”

She frowns. 

“He’s… I’m not going to say weird, but he  _ is  _ a little strange. I don’t know him that well though. Should I ask him about it?”

“No,” Peter says quickly. “We don’t want to show our hand until we better understand what we’re dealing with. Now, finish up your breakfast, sweetheart. You’ll be late.”

Allison gives him a soft smile and continues eating her breakfast.

Peter dotes on the girl. Derek himself can’t decide if he likes her or Chris more. And Allison was surprisingly quick to accept Peter as her father’s boyfriend, after he and her mom had that nasty divorce. 

That all happened shortly after she became privy to the family secret and refused to abide by the code. Her grandfather, mother, and aunt had been furious. In an attempt to set her straight, they’d captured Peter and Derek, demanding that she execute them. What they hadn’t anticipated though, was Peter and Chris’ secret past as lovers. 

After Kate had murdered his whole family, Chris had thought that Peter was among those dead. It had killed Peter to leave, but he had Derek to protect. As the newly-anointed Alpha, protecting his little pack of two was forefront in his mind. So they’d ran to New York, where Peter had friends from another pack. One week turned into one month, and then a year, until finally after six they both decided it was safe to move back home. 

Peter hadn’t realized that Chris and his wife had never left, and when Chris saw him it was as if a single day of those six years hadn’t passed. He turned on his family, Allison quickly following into step behind him, freeing both Peter and Derek while her father held them off. There had been gunfire, blood, and death. In the end, Peter had dispatched Kate, and Chris had killed Gerard. 

Victoria was allowed to leave, on the condition that she stay the hell away from Beacon Hills. She had agreed and told Allison to come with her. Allison stood firmly beside her father and announced that she was staying. Her mother had screamed and swore and threatened, but Allison wouldn’t budge. 

That was almost two years ago. She made fast friends with Peter and Derek, and Peter was absolutely delighted. He had always wanted children, but things didn't work out. Now, he has Allison to shower with gifts, give life advice to, and threaten any boys who dare treat her less than she deserves. 

When they finish their breakfast, Peter and Allison head out. Allison gives Derek a quick hug and peck on the cheek before leaving. Okay, so he might be a little gone on her too. She reminds him so much of Laura, and having her around takes away some of that lingering ache. 

He goes upstairs to get dressed, then heads out himself. He parks the Camaro about half a mile from the school then travels through the woods to the high school campus. He spots Stiles’ beat up Jeep in the parking lot. The morning bell rings, and various students hanging around outside start filing into the building. 

He circles the building, looking through the windows to see if he can spot Stiles. It takes until second period for Derek to find him. He’s in chemistry class, sitting next to a goofy-looking kid with a slanted jaw. They’re laughing about something. 

The day is long and tedious, but not as boring as he first thought it would be. Stiles is entertaining to watch. He flails a lot, using his arms to emphasize whatever he’s talking about. He seems to look dazed a few times throughout the day, gaze going glassy for five to thirty seconds, then he’ll blink a few times and smile as if nothing was wrong. 

Derek picks up his conversation during the lunch period because him and his friend sit outside. He wouldn’t have been able to if they were sitting at the tables with the rest of the students, but he and his friend - Scott, Derek had heard - walk out to the Lacrosse field with their lunch trays, away from the crowd and close enough to the woods for him to easily eavesdrop. 

“... It was actually really cool. It’s kind of hard to explain, but he sort of spun, and a cyclone of black feathers appeared out of nowhere, and it was all twisty and swirling. Then a huge-ass raven appeared out of the feathers, and took off! Seriously, Scott, I wish you could have seen it.”

They sit and start digging into their food.

“I dunno, man. Sounds kinda terrifying.” Scott replies around a mouthful of sandwich. 

“But that’s not even the best thing- I have a feather! It’s at home. I touched it.  _ Held it.”  _ Stiles throws his hand up enthusiastically, mimicking holding the feather between his thumb and forefinger.  __ “It was still in my pocket when I came home.” 

“Huh.” Scott sounds thoughtful. “Maybe you can show me after work tonight. And the two dudes? The werewolves?”

Derek tenses.  _ They know?  _ And they’re talking overly casual, as if it’s a normal occurrence.  _ Fuckfuckfuck.  _

Before he can answer, Scott catches sight of Allison walking across the pitch. He elbows Stiles. 

“Dude, she’s coming over!”

Then he pretends to act like he didn’t notice- which he fails miserably at. She giggles to herself as she walks over. When she gets close enough, Stiles yells, “hey Allison!” Scott mumbles his hello, eyes at his tray and a blush creeping on his cheeks. Derek snorts to himself. This poor sap. If Allison decides to pursue him, she's gonna eat him alive. 

She sits down next to them and asks, “what are you guys talking about?”

Scott opens his mouth, and this time it’s Stiles that elbows him. He makes a loud  _ oof  _ noise. 

“Nothing. Classes.” It’s obvious that he’s lying, even without listening to his stuttering heart, and Allison takes note with a wry smile. She doesn’t push it though. 

“Cool. I talked to my dad and Peter, and I think they’re okay if we go to prom together.” 

Scott gets a dopey look on his face, smiling like Allison is the moon, the sun, and all of the things in between. 

With Allison there, all talks of the supernatural stop. She gently pries, asks about Stiles’ shift at the parlour last night, but other than mentioning two random guys in the back alley that he told off, he doesn’t mention much else. 

After their lunch break is over, Derek heads back home for his own lunch and a nap. He overheard Stiles talking about working after school, so he plans on going to the parlour and feeling him out. He doubts that the kid will recognize him. He was shifted last night, and also not wearing his standard leather jacket. 

Peter isn’t at the loft when he gets home, but he can hear him working on the floor below. He’s glad for some time alone. As much as the wolf craves pack and closeness, his human side doesn’t mind the space. 

After heating up some leftovers, he lounges on the couch and let’s his mind sift through the day so far. It doesn’t take him long to doze off. 

\- - -

He leaves the house around 4pm, thinking that he can beat the evening rush and hopefully coax a few sentences out of the kid. When he pulls up, there’s only a few cars parked in front of the shop. From what he can see through the window, there’s only one customer, and they’re leaving the store. 

He pushes the door open, and a bell tingles. Stiles is behind the counter, drawing on a notepad. His head snaps up and he stares at Derek for a long second, eyes wide and heart rate slightly elevated. Shit. Does he remember him? But then he’s pushing the notepad aside, clearing his throat, and plastering a wide grin on his face. 

“Welcome to Swirl World! What can I make for you today?” 

The other employee, a girl, snorts and rolls her eyes. Derek frowns, observing their behavior. 

_ “Erica,  _ didn’t you have to do a temp check?” He asks pointedly. She sighs and heads out back without another word. He turns back to Derek, grin wider than before. Derek puts on his most charming smile in an attempt to disarm him. 

“Um, I’ve never been here before. What sort of specials do you have?” 

Stiles launches into a full spiel. Flavors, toppings, which combinations are good and which ones to steer clear of. He talks about the secret menu that he created himself, but don’t tell the boss because he isn’t a fan of creativity. 

As Derek listens to him, his forced smile transforms into a genuine one. The kid is a delight to listen to, and he’s also pretty funny. His arms are flying all over the place and you can tell that he really enjoys his work, even if it is something as simple as ice cream. He keeps dropping little personal things in his speech, and Derek find it endearing.

“We do a killer rocky road- my dad loves it, but he only gets it on the first Friday of every month, and _ only  _ if he’s behaved. He likes to sneak fast food, and no one will sell him the ice cream if I tell them not to.” And then he’ll blush, mutter an apology, and continue talking about the ice cream. 

As he talks, Derek’s eyes wander. He looks at the ice cream, the toppings, and then his eyes fall on the notepad. It’s a halfway decent drawing of the guy he and Peter cornered last night. His face is dark and shadowed, and there’s a swirl of feathers below his bare chest. 

“What’s that?” Derek asks, pointing to the drawing and feigning curiosity. 

Stiles blushes. 

“Oh, that’s just something I drew.” He mumbles. 

“It’s really good.” Derek presses. “What is it? Something from a movie? Can I see it?”

Stiles seems to perk up a bit at his interest. He grabs the sketchbook and hands it to Derek. 

“Not from a movie. It’s called a Valravn. Danish folklore,” he explains, upon seeing Derek’s questioning look. “According to legend, they’re normal ravens that develop abilities by eating the heart of a king slain on the battlefield. Tricky little fuckers too. They’ll purposely cause travelers to become lost, make awful deals with humans, and drink the blood from a child’s heart to gain the ability to turn human. Other accounts say that it’s a tortured soul, looking for redemption, and can only fly at night.”

Derek hums. He goes to flip the page, and then stops himself. 

“May I?” He asks, hand hovering over the edge. 

“Yeah, sure.” Stiles goes for nonchalance, but his heart ticks up a beat. Derek flips to the previous page, and is met with a drawing of his face, Beta shifted. The accuracy is stunning. He swallows hard and traces a finger over the drawing. 

“And what’s-” he has to clear his throat - “What’s this?” His voice wavers uncharacteristically.

“Werewolf.” Stiles says simply. “But I don’t need to explain those to you.” 

Derek’s head snaps up fast.

“What?” He says too quickly and with too much emotion.  _ Shit, shit, shit.  _

“Well, everyone knows werewolf lore. They aren’t obscure. I’m sure I’d just bore you,” Stiles continues, but his brow is furrowed as he regards Derek’s little outburst. 

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” Derek says. “Can I… can I keep looking?” At that moment, the door chimes, and a mother with two small children walk in. 

“Yeah, that’s fine. Can I help them? You can sit, if you want, and I’ll help you after.”

Derek nods and takes the sketch book with him to a table. It’s a thick book, and most of the pages are filled. Some of the drawings he can’t make heads or tails of, like a bedroom with colorful buoys and a swath of fish net suspending in midair over a bed. Others are creatures. He doesn’t recognize most of them, but some he does. 

There’s a sketch of a ghoul, and it looks exactly like the one he and Peter dispatched last month. It has the same markings, the same dead-eyed look. Another page shows a wendigo, mouth open wide in a hiss with too many teeth. Argent has been the one to kill him. 

Derek is so enthralled by the pictures that he doesn’t hear Stiles walk up to him several minutes later. He actually jumps, and it’s embarrassing. Stiles doesn’t mention it, just slides into the seat across from him. 

“So… do you draw too?” He asks, and he sounds almost… shy? A small smile plays on his lips. 

“Um… no, actually, I’m just really into supernatural stuff. The Valravn-” he flips back to that page- “I really like that one. Where did you come up with that idea?”

He hopes that he doesn’t sound too inquisitive. He actually finds himself chewing his lip nervously. If he spooks the kid, they'll have to take The Peter Approach, and he doesn’t want to. Stiles seems genuine, even if he is strangely indifferent to the supernatural. 

Stiles stares at him for a long second, slack-jawed, then seems to shake himself out of it. 

“Yeah. Well what I told you about it, the folklore, that’s real. I didn’t make that part up. But I only learned about it last night, after sifting through google. As for  _ why  _ I drew it… would you believe me if I said I saw one?” 

He’s looking directly at Derek, and Derek has to fight not to squirm under his stare. Something about this kid is so intense, so off-putting, so disarming, that Derek feels like he’s floundering. Stiles’ tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Derek watches as he drags in his bottom lip and scrape his top teeth over it as it pops back out. Then he does it again. And again. 

Derek’s breath hitches. What’s his deal? He’s supposed to be tracking a lead, not falling for some barely legal (or possibly illegal) kid who has a whole life ahead of him. After the eighth time that Stiles does it, he frowns suddenly and brings a hand up to his lips, feeling the movement. His face breaks out into a shade of red. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles. “It’s- it’s like a tick. I don’t even know I’m doing it sometimes.” His lip is swollen and red, and Derek has to tear his gaze away and back up to Stiles’ eyes. 

“No, it’s fine,” Derek assures him. ”I just spaced out for a second there.”

Stiles chuckles. 

“Tell me about it, man. If spacing out was a profession, I’d be set for life.” He relaxes and leans back in the booth, throwing an arm over the back of his seat. His foot nudges Derek’s, and he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. 

“So, you saw one of these things?” Derek asks, trying to steer the conversation back to the issue at hand. Stiles chews the inside of his lip, regarding Derek. He must make a decision then, because he starts to talk. 

“In a way. I don’t really tell a lot of people this, because I’m in high school and the last thing I need is being labeled as the class crazy. But you seem like a decent dude who won’t go spreading rumors about the Sheriff’s son, yeah?” He raises an eyebrow at Derek. 

Derek pretends that the news of him being the sheriff’s son is something new. He lets out a soft,  _ oh,  _ and nods. 

“Okay. So I  _ did  _ see it, but that doesn’t make it real. I have what the doctor’s like to label as a rare case of temporal lobe epilepsy. It’s not like what you’d think when you think ‘epilepsy’, though. I don’t go into convulsing fits or anything. I mean, some folks with TLE do, but I’m lucky enough not to. It just makes my brain work a little different. My neurologist thinks that it’s because of my ADHD, but where normal TLE patients only hallucinate while they’re sleeping, or just little bits when they’re awake, I have full-blown ones. People, creatures, nonsensical things…”

Derek feels a pang of sympathy for Stiles as understanding dawns on him. He has hallucinations that he’s obviously learned to cope with, to the point that he can see actual supernatural creatures and write it off as being in his head. In a town like Beacon Hills, he’s surprised the kid hasn’t been killed yet. It suddenly makes sense to him, how the Sheriff had sighed and simply told him,  _ ‘write it in your journal.’ _

“That’s… wow. Does it scare you?” Derek asks, and the concern in his voice is genuine. 

“It used to. It started when I was eleven. I had something called hypnopompic hallucinations, where you wake up and see things that aren’t there. I couldn’t sleep in my own room for  _ weeks.  _ It gets easier with time though. Now, even when I’m awake during the day and they look like they’re really there, I usually ignore them, or stare at them until they dissipate.”

“Huh.” Derek wants to try something, but it makes him feel like shit. He lets the nails slowly start to grow on the hand that’s still over the sketchbook while he continues to talk. “So there are all things you’ve seen? What else do you see?”

Stiles eye catches his hand, and he looks back up to Derek. 

“Well, your nails are turning into claws right now. Not for real, of course,” he rushes to say. Derek picks up his hand and makes a show of observing his full-length claws. “They look like werewolf claws to me right now. Like, they’re sprouted right out of your fingernails. But in a few seconds they’ll go back to normal. Well, for me, that is. They’re already normal for you.”

Derek puts his hand back down flat on the table, and watches as he retracts them. 

“How do you know it’s not real? I mean, objectively.” Derek asks. 

“Touch, usually.” Stiles says. “My hallucinations, as real as they might look or sound, can’t be touched.”

He reaches forward and brushes a finger across the nail of Derek’s middle finger. Derek swallows hard and fights the shiver that runs down his spine. He thinks back to last night, when Stiles has picked up the feather with a sense of awe.  _ I feel you,  _ he had said. 

“Just a normal, human nail.” Stiles muses. He leans back in his seat. “Would you believe that I even saw  _ you?” _

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Yeah, perched on my roof last night. I know, super weird. But strange too, even for me. Because I usually never see things so… normal, I guess? Although, some random dude on your roof is hardly normal.” He laughs, but there’s a self-depreciating quality to it. It makes Derek want to tell the truth. 

“But you’ve never seen me before, have you?” Derek asks curiously. 

“Well, I’ve seen you around town a few times, in passing. The human brain is incapable of creating new faces, so it makes sense.” He shrugs, seemingly unbothered. 

Derek can hardly believe it. This kid has  _ seen  _ things, things that would send most people to Eichen House, and he’s just rolling with the punches, unbothered. Of course, that might not be the case if he realized that what he was seeing was actually  _ real. _

The front door chimes and Allison walks in, fingers entwined with Scott’s. She sees Derek, and looks at him for a long second with wide eyes, but doesn’t react past that. He gets what’s going through her head and nods minutely, telling her that  _ yes,  _ she can let on that she knows him. 

“Derek! What are you doing here?” She asks, quickly letting go of Scott’s hand to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. He arches a brow as if to say  _ too late, already saw it.  _

He opens his mouth to speak, but Stiles beats him to it. 

“Oh, you two know each other?” 

“He’s the older brother I never asked for.” She says happily, and Derek scoots over so she can sit next to him. She bumps his shoulder playfully with her own. Stiles scoots over too, and Scott slides in next to him, looking nervously at Derek. 

“I didn’t know you had a big brother,” He mumbles, audibly gulping. It makes Derek want to laugh. 

“Technically, He’s Peter’s nephew. But still. He’s the only other family I have.”

It makes warmth bloom in Derek’s chest, hearing that. They’ve gotten along well these past few years, but it’s the first time he’s heard her really admit how much she cares about him. He immediately feels the same way. She’s a little piece of all the women he had lost; his mother’s poise, Laura’s quick wit and bubbliness, Cora’s hardness. He has to stop himself from pressing his nose in her hair to scent her. As far as humans go, that’s not normal brotherly behavior. 

Derek does however decide to play The Protective Big Brother role. 

“And would this be Scott, Allison?” He asks, pinning Scott with a stare. Scott shifts comfortably. 

“It  _ is,  _ and stop.” She elbows him in the ribs. “He’s a big softy, don’t let the leather jacket fool you,” She tells Scott. 

Stiles watches the banter with an easy smile. 

“Well, if anyone knows anything about choosing your family, it’s us, right Scotty?” Stiles asks, holding out a fist. 

“Totally, man.” Scott replies, bumping his own against it. 

“Oh cool. One of your drawings, Stiles?” Allison asks, looking down at the sketch pad. 

“Yeah, just something from one of my mythology books.” He grabs the sketch book and closes it, sending Derek a quick, pleading look. Derek understands, and doesn’t mention anything about his condition. 

“Yeah, I came in to buy some ice cream, and saw him drawing. Mentioned that I was into folklore too. We’ve mostly been needing out.” Derek says it easily. Stiles shooting him a grateful look. 

“Oh! Well Stiles, Scott is coming over later. Do you want to come too? My dad and Peter have a massive library of books filled with stuff like that. Some books are over a hundred years old. They’re actually really amazing.” 

Stiles lights up at that. Derek does too, but it’s much more internal. He does notice that Scott pouts a bit. He narrows his eyes at Scott, who doesn’t miss it. He squirms again. 

“Sounds good to me,” Derek says. Stiles nods emphatically. Derek’s phone dings, and he takes it out to look at a text from Peter. 

_ Chris has no leads, he’s taking the first plane home. He’ll be back early tomorrow.  _

“Looks like your dad is coming home early. The gun show didn’t pan out.” Derek tells Allison carefully. She furrows her brows, reading between the lines.  _ Chris doesn’t know what we’re dealing with, and is coming home to help find a way to kill it.  _ “Well, I’ve got to get home and catch up with my uncle.” 

Allison moves so he can get out of the booth. Once he’s standing, and takes out his wallet and puts three twenties on the table. 

“My treat. You three get whatever you want. Stiles, you can choose a few pints to bring by the loft tonight. Keep whatever’s left as a tip.” 

Stiles eyebrows shoot up. 

“Thanks, dude! Uh, any flavors you don’t like?” 

“Nope. Surprise me.”

As if Stiles hasn’t been doing that for the last twenty-four hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to mention that while Temporal Lobe Epilepsy is a real disorder, I highly embellished for my fic. While some of his symptoms are portrayed accurately, others are hollywoodized for the sake of plot. If you're curious to learn more about TLE, here's a good starting point: https://www.epilepsy.com/learn/types-epilepsy-syndromes/temporal-lobe-epilepsy-aka-tle

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked any of these wips, be sure to subscribe to this fic for updates! When I complete and post them, I'll post a heads up in this fic so you get an email notification.


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